


Assorted Tumblr Fics

by onawingandaswear



Series: OMGCP Tumblr Collection [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hockey, M/M, Magic, Multi, Oh god, Supernatural - Freeform, everything?, see the summaries for specifics? there's a lot going on in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 18:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14478264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: A semi-comprehensive collection of my OMGCP reply fics, prompts, one-shots, and collaborations that largely focus on Zimbits.1. 'Afterparty' - NSFW - "I’ve been told it’s good luck to get laid after you win a cup.”2. Soulmate AU - "you find your soulmate by paying a soulmate matching company $50,000"3. Touch - A quiet moment in bed.4. 'Hot Guy' - Jack gets a makeover. Bitty is not prepared.5. Possession (is the Motivation) - Jack wakes up after an accident with more than one voice in his head.6. Soulmate AU - "you find your soulmate if you can go a week without leaving an empty soda can or mug out in your apartment"7. 'Ego Boost' - NSFW - Jack gets possessive.8. Werewolf!Jack - OMGCPumpkins entry based on art by AwfulRuby9. Reincarnation AU - based on Omgpieplease's OMGCP Heartbreakfest entry10. 'Hazing' - Jack’s history with hazing is not a pleasant one.11. 'Scars (and a half-assed proposal)' - "Honestly, it’s a miracle Jack didn’t lose an eye."12. Soft-Masculine Jack13. Post-Overdose - Alicia threatens to leave Bob14. Sled-Hockey AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** _Jack snorts a laugh and gets an arm around Bitty’s torso; soon enough Bitty’s in a fireman’s hold over Jack’s shoulder, upside down and staring at a very fine ass. “I’ve been told it’s good luck to get laid after you win a cup.”_

_**A/N:**  I wrote smut. All engaged parties are consenting adults who have imbibed alcohol but are in control of their faculties. Enjoy._

* * *

Providence, RI, 1:38 AM, ‘morning’ after the cup

* * *

Somewhere between his third beer pong loss and Poots pouring a fireball shot directly into his mouth, Bitty feels a familiar hand curl around his waist and a breathy, whiskey-scented voice whisper,  _“Hey, I want to show you something.”_

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bitty teases, allowing Jack to tug him away from the pool table, “my  _‘boyfriend’_  needs my attention.”

After a few suggestive hoots and hollers, drowned quickly by tequila shots and expensive French champagne, Bitty follows Jack down the hall to their bedroom and tries not to laugh at Jack’s bubbly excitement.

“Hon, what’s goin’ on?”

“Just, look,” Jack closes the door behind them and shuts out the party; like a breaker blowing, the room flares in bright flashes of gold from fireworks going off across the river.

Bitty leans back against Jack’s chest and takes it all in — the first calm moment since before the game — and feels like he’s on top of the world. Untouchable. Jack must feel the same because he’s leaned down to drop heavy kisses to Bitty’s neck.

“We won, Bits,” Jack laughs, nipping at his ear. “I won.”

“Yes, you did,” Bitty breaks an arm loose of Jack’s hold and reaches up to scratch his bearded cheek, noting that his skin is slightly tacky with sweat from the close-quarters victory celebration. “You did so well.”

“I did,” Jack agrees, burying his nose in Bitty’s hair. “I came out.  _We_  came out.”

The words are husky, thick with something Bitty doesn’t have time to misinterpret, so he curves his back just a touch to press his ass against Jack’s pelvis. Sure enough, there’s something stiff that has already risen to meet him.

“You did that, too, came out all over the place,” Bitty says, fighting a smile as he takes in the lights and the sensation of the man behind him. “Feels like you still want to come out all over the place.”

“You could say that. Wanna help me take care of that? Start a new tradition?” Jack snorts a laugh and gets an arm around Bitty’s torso; soon enough Bitty’s in a fireman’s hold over Jack’s shoulder, upside down and staring at a very fine ass. “I’ve been told it’s good luck to get laid after you win a cup.”

Another burst of fireworks casts the room in green and gold.

“Oh, really? There’s a whole party full of people out there here to celebrate ‘you’,” Bitty points out while Jack carries him to the bed. He reaches down to slide a hand beneath the waistband of Jack’s shorts and get a solid handful of Zimmermann butt cheek while he chides, “we aren’t being very good hosts.”

“I just won a Stanley Cup my rookie season. I kissed my boyfriend on live TV. There isn’t one person here that doesn’t expect me to make love to you tonight.”

“Not while they’re  _here_!”

“Did you miss Snowy taking his fiancé into the guest room? Hell, pretty sure Tater’s getting a handjob in the bathroom.”

“ _No_ , he is not —” Jack adjusts Bitty until he can drop safely onto the bed. “Oh, and ‘make love’?” Bitty chirps, falling back and laying spread eagle. “Really?”

“ _‘Fuck you so hard you can’t walk’_  isn’t romantic,” Jack offers with a predatory smile, pulling off his  _‘Providence Falconers - Stanley Cup Champions’_  shirt and tossing it onto the nightstand. The same shirt he’s been wearing since the locker room toast. His hair is only just starting to fall out of place, he reeks of champagne and sweat, and Bitty’s never been this turned on in his entire life.

“Just a quickie?” Jack asks with a half-assed pout. “Just one, little, world-shattering, victory-celebrating, life-affirming quickie with your boyfriend?” He starts sliding off his shorts and Bitty laughs when he drops his briefs in the same motion, revealing a very familiar, very heavy erection.

“Well, look who showed up for overtime,” Bitty teases, wriggling out of his shirt as Jack leans down to fuss with the button on his jeans. “How do you have any energy? It’s two am.”

“You know how important ice time is to me, means I have excellent stamina,” Jack chastises, tugging Bitty’s pants down before dragging his tongue over the curve Bitty’s still underwear covered cock. “A champion is always ready,” Jack preens, almost as an afterthought.

Before Bitty can come up with a witty retort, he’s naked and Jack’s already got a finger inside him, pressing hard on his prostate with little forewarning.

_“Oh, god —”_

“You tell me if it’s too much,” Jack warns, adding a second lube-covered finger. Then a third. “I’ll stop.”

“It won’t be,” Bitty moans, pressing down against Jack’s hand. There’s a condom. More lube. Bitty rolls onto his stomach and pushes up into a plank before Jack’s kicking his legs open and sliding in with a welcome urgency.

There’s no build up, Jack slides in, adjusts, and starts moving so quickly Bitty can barely catch a break, the pressure on his prostate almost constant. This is going to be quick. Very, very quick.

“Love you, Bits,” Jack groans, wrapping a tight arm around Bitty’s middle and pulling him upright, closer with each thrust.  _“So fucking much.”_

“J-Jack,” Bitty gets a hand on the headboard and holds on tight while Jack thrusts into him from behind with an urgency they’ve never needed to bring to the bedroom — quick, punishing hip snaps that leave Bitty gasping and struggling to stay upright.

Bitty slips and slides forward onto his forearm before finally reaching down and fisting his own dripping cock. He won’t last long.

He  _can’t_  last long.

“I’m close,” Bitty pants against his arm. “I’m close.”

Jack seems to take this as a challenge and changes the rhythm, setting a hand on Bitty’s hip to change the angle. It doesn’t take much for Bitty to spill over his hand with a breathy whine, but Jack’s still going strong. All that leftover championship energy, he guesses.

“Ah, Bits,  _fuck_  —” the rhythm falters and Jack curls over, clutching Bitty tight to his chest as he pumps up, finally coming.

They stay still for a few moments, letting the aftershocks roll through, and Jack falls back onto his thighs, pulling Bitty with him as he slides out with a care previously absent from the act itself.

“We have to go back to the party,” Bitty mumbles, rolling to press his face against Jack’s sweaty chest, fighting the urge to sneeze at the hairs tickling his nose. “Have to get up. Drink more. Not act like you just fucked me in a home full of everyone we know.”

“Cup sex,” Jack whispers reverently, running his fingers along the curve of Bitty’s spine. “Cup sex with my _boyfriend._ ”

“Mmmm,” Bitty shies away from the touch, a little ticklish, and listens to the roar of their guests continuing to celebrate. The fireworks have stopped but the city lights still illuminate the room enough for Bitty to make out every detail of Jack’s content, sated face. Also, a dull shadow. 

“We’ve been made,” Bitty whispers, tipsy enough not to care nearly as much as he should.

“Huh? What?”

A loud banging comes from the window and Jack jumps up, accidentally pushing Bitty off the bed entirely.

_“HELL YEAH!!!! ZIMMS, GET SOME!!!!”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Shitty-Check-Please-Aus.tumblr. com: AU where you can find your soulmate by paying a soulmate matching company $50,000. Bitty's blog is mostly for his fundraiser to pay his matching fee

Jack didn’t have a solid grasp on income inequality when he was young because his family had always had money. The people he was raised around had money. Jack wanted for nothing and assumed for the longest time that his experiences were universal. 

Jack remembers his first billet experience and being momentarily confused as to why he couldn’t have his own room. His teammate at the time had mocked him mercilessly for his ignorance, and that was one of the first times Jack felt genuine shame.

He’d also grown up with stories of his parent’s whirlwind romance and struggling to scrape together enough money to pay a ludicrous Match fee was not part of the tale. It wasn’t part of anyone’s story, really; back when Matching had been run by an NGO service, Bob Zimmermann was a world-renowned athlete and Alicia Carter was a silver screen darling. They had the money but didn’t need it.

In 1985, Bob and Alicia paid a service fee of $75 US dollars and put their names into one database.

Then regulations were slashed and Wall Street realized there was easy money to be made off the back of a system that had been in place for centuries. One database became many, and fees crept higher and higher because it turned out people would pay just about anything for happiness. 

Now, in 2015, Jack Zimmermann is watching Eric Bittle pick quarters out of Founder’s water fountain so he can save toward the $50,000 he needs to find his soulmate.

“Don’t you dare judge me, Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle cautions, leaning in to snag what looks like a golden dollar. “A man has his priorities.”

It would be so easy for Jack to hip check Bittle into the fountain. He doesn’t but he could if he wanted. He also doesn’t ask things like,  _“What if your soulmate hasn’t paid their fee yet?”_

_“What if they aren’t in the system?”  
_

_“What if he just wants to be friends?”_

~~_“What if your soulmate isn’t me?”_ ~~

_______

When Jack signs with the Falconers and adds his signing bonus to an already swollen bank account, he thinks about his Hausmates, and everything his friends have done for him. Of course, he says he’ll go in on the new oven for Bittle’s birthday — in fact, he pays for most of it — but he also talks to a Federal Match Agent and prepays for six searches, including his own. 

The gift is simultaneously too much and not enough. These are the people that saved him, helped him grow enough to play professionally at all. He owes them happiness at the very least.

It’s $300,000 gone to the best cause he can imagine.

He wraps up the certificates in loose scraps of colored tissue left over from Lardo’s last project and one by one quietly gifts a future to each of his closest friends. Ransom. Holster. Shitty. Lardo. In return, he receives offers of first-born children, stoic promises of secrecy, wet mustached kisses, hugs, cuddles, a lot of tears. So many tears.

Bittle’s certificate is wrapped in blue and yellow paper and still tucked beneath a stack of flannel shirts in Jack’s dresser. It’s not a conscious effort at avoidance, but Jack can’t bring himself to hand the thing over. They slip closer and closer to graduation and he still hasn’t been able to let go.

On some level, he knows why.

Then they’re building a fire on top of a Faber and Bitty is cold and talking about his future and finding a partner and Jack can’t do this anymore because he’s graduating and —

“We need to talk,” he tells Bittle on the walk back to the Haus, “I have something for you.”

“And I have your jacket,” Bitty snarks back, thinking it’s a chirp. “Wanna trade?”

“No, I mean, I have a gift for you. An early graduation present.”

Shitty is a few steps ahead and tosses a knowing look over his shoulder, locking eyes with Jack. “Trust me, Bitty, you want what Jackie-boy is dishing out.”

_______

Jack has a speech prepared, something a leader would say, impersonal, but Bittle tears off the paper and doesn’t say anything for a good long while. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t cry, doesn’t do anything.

“Is this,” Jack reaches out to touch Bitty’s arm lightly, “are you okay?”

“This is the nicest thing anyone will ever do for me,” Bitty says softly, thumbing at the corner of the certificate. “There is nothing I can say, or do, that can come close to thanking you enough.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Jack tries to explain. “I wanted to do this.”

“You gave me a soulmate,” Bitty looks up and Jack is surprised by how pulled together he is. “I might owe you my entire life.”

“You have to build a life first, eh?” Jack stumbles trying to think of something to say that won’t make this situation tenser and Bitty’s eyes finally well with tears as he clutches the paper close to his chest.

“Thank you, Jack. Truly.”

Jack’s heart swells and he accepts the embrace that follows with open arms.

________

Not four hours later Jack’s father somehow knocks some sense into him, and Jack runs across the campus to  _kiss_  Bittle goodbye.

In the immediate aftermath, he finally understands why he was so reluctant to hand over the Match certificate in the first place.

_______

Jack’s heart is racing from the second his plane touches down at Hartsfield-Jackson to the moment he catches sight of Bitty waving from the pickup lane. He resists the urge to pull the distinctive cream-colored envelope from his bag during the nearly hour-long drive to Bitty’s home in Madison.

Instead, they talk about Jack’s place in Providence, his parents, the Falconers — Jack follows Bitty’s lead, and Bitty doesn’t mention soulmates, so Jack doesn’t either. The letter stays put.

For now.

After introductions, a tour of the house, sweet-tea ( _”Is it supposed to be so sweet?”),_ Jack finally has a chance to get Bitty alone in his room. There are light touches, a few chaste kisses, and then he sees it: a cream envelope resting unopened on Bitty’s desk. He pulls back and almost regrets the way Bitty’s lips follow his.

“Bits is that…?”

Bitty turns with a soft, “Oh.” 

It’s not a good ‘ _oh_ ’. It’s measured, a stalling ‘ _oh_ ’.

“Oh?”

“It got here so fast, I didn’t —” Jack drops to his knees and opens his duffel, rooting around for the identical letter in his own bag when Bitty says, “I haven’t looked because I … I didn’t want to know if we didn’t match.” 

Jack stops, feeling the ragged seam of his own envelope against his fingertips, the one hiding official paperwork that has ‘ERIC RICHARD BITTLE III’ printed in thick black ink beside the word ‘ _Soulmate_ ’.

“You haven’t?”

“I just wanted to enjoy this week,” Bitty whispers, wringing his hands. “I was scared that I’d ruin it if the letter didn’t —”

“I opened mine,” Jack blurts, not caring even a little bit about interrupting him. “I already opened it. You don’t have to open yours, but do you want to see mine?” He thrusts the envelope at Bitty and shakes it a little, trying and failing to contain his own excitement. 

“What?”

Jack doesn’t answer, just shakes the envelope again, more insistently, and he laughs as Bitty seems to finally catch on.

“Wait, are we matched?” Bitty asks, stunned, reaching out slowly to take the letter, rather watching Jack’s face. “Really? We’re soulmates?!”

Jack loses his balance when Bitty throws himself at him and they topple onto the bed, still clutching at the papers. “You haven’t even looked yet,” Jack laughs reaching over Bitty to unfold the paper and shove it close to his face. “See, there’s your name and there’s mine.”

Bitty blinks up at him, teary, “Jack, we’re soulmates.”

“Still feel like you owe me?” Jack teases, pecking Bitty’s cheek. “Because I feel like I might owe you  _everything_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch - Zimbits - A quiet moment in bed.

Bitty cherishes the quiet moments in their life together. Moments that are few and far between because for all the time he and Jack have alone, those moments aren’t always calm. Aren’t always ‘theirs’. Jack needs calm and quiet in equal measure, especially on nights like this: nights that follow rough schedules and flight delays.

Bad news and bad weather.

Bitty leans back against the pillows and relishes the feeling of Jack between his thighs, his torso a pleasant weight against Bitty’s belly, both sharing and comfortable with the knowledge that they don’t need anything more than this. Just a tired press of bare skin against bare skin.

It may not have the same initial thrill as a locker room blowjob or a good, hard fuck against the pool table but it is so much more precious. No expectation, no end goal, just existing, being, together.

“What do you need?” Jack’s thumb brushes along the curve of Bitty’s ear and he can’t help but laugh at the shiver that follows.

“Just … this,” Bitty sighs, letting his eyes slip shut to chase the sensation a few seconds longer. 

“I think this is my favorite part,” Jack whispers, drawing his fingertips from Bitty’s earlobe down the line of his jaw and over the curve of his lips. “When I remember you’re mine.”

Bitty bites lazily at the thumb running over his lip because he can’t think of a good reason not to. He presses his tongue against the callouses and catches the uneven skin where Jack picks when he’s nervous.

“I just need this. You.” Jack continues, chest rumbling with amusement as Bitty bites a little harder. “I could do this forever.”

Bitty relaxes his jaw and blinks up at his partner, reaching to run his fingers through Jack’s hair and scratch at his scalp in the way that makes his eyes droop and his shoulders sag.

Bitty thinks he could do this forever, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a surprise makeover courtesy of the Falconers. Bitty is not prepared.

It’s been a long couple of days, between the announcement that Bitty would become captain his senior year and the Falconer’s playoff berth, Bitty’s been missing his boyfriend something fierce.

He flashes his badge at the security guard —Michael, snickerdoodles, slightly underdone — and starts toward the locker room when he catches sight of Tater talking to someone he doesn’t recognize.

Bitty feels a stirring of something in his chest, the man is tall, broad, with a shock of closely cropped black hair, and he’s barely hiding some impressive thighs beneath some well-tailored jeans.

He’s 110% Bitty’s preferred body type, which makes him feel insanely guilty because he’s entertained the thought so many times of Jack getting a makeover. What he’d look like if he abandons those adorably outdated bangs and upgraded to something current. If he wore clothes cut to fit his hideously attractive body instead of throwing on the same off-the-rack suit.

If only Jack would dress like this gentleman, in a smart blazer and jeans and —

“B!” Tater shouts, waving over the mystery man’s shoulder. “Look — we dare Zimmboni talk to George’s stylist. So funny, he looks like model!”

Tater bodily spins the man around and sure enough, Hot Guy is his boyfriend and Bitty thinks he might black out from the handsome.

“Bits, you okay?”

Oh, god, the stubble. The undercut. It’s worse this close. It’s too much. Bitty doesn’t deserve this, no one deserves this.

“What?”

Bitty spies the aviators tucked into the collar of his v-neck shirt and suddenly there is no blood left in the upper half of his body.

“Jack,” he stumbles. “We need to leave. Now.”

Jack is confused and concerned and he doesn’t get it. How could he? He can’t have known what this would do to Bitty. Could he? 

“Zimmboni, I think little B like your new look,” Tater teases, and Bitty swallows against the lump in his throat, trying not to nod furiously in agreement.

“Oh,” Jack looks down at him with his ridiculously blue eyes. “You really like it? I know it’s different, I wasn’t sure — are you crying?”

Bitty lifts a hand and touches his cheek. Sure enough, his fingertips come away wet. 

He  _is_  crying. 

But, they’re tears of  _joy._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a tragic accident, Jack wakes up in the hospital with more than one voice in his head.
> 
> ((Warnings: Implied Character Death (Bitty), Ghosts, Mental Illness))

It’s like this every day.

Every waking moment he entertains a voice of reason — of madness — that is not his own and never will be. Only one body was fished out of Providence River that night. One body and two minds.

Doctors were quick to assume the worst, but that’s not what this is.

_[A product of severe psychological trauma —]_

He can still play. Ownership isn’t going to let a little thing like insanity keep Providence from another cup. There’s still an ‘A’ on Jack’s uniform. It’s still his team, and if he skates a little faster, spins a little more than usual, no one can argue with the results.

_You look stunning in blue. I wish you’d wear it more often._

“Thank you,” Jack says, trying not to stare down his own reflection to search for lingering signs of Eric Richard Bittle. Instead, he finds only scars — remnants of the accident and horrors he’d just as soon forget.

 _Badges of honor,_ the voice placates.  _You’re beautiful. A testament to your strength, your ability to adapt. To survive._

“I survived you,” Jack mutters, prodding at a thin line of scar tissue that curves across his cheek. “Not that I ever wanted to.”

_None of that, Sugar —_

Jack can feel his control slipping away by inches as the aggressive press of his fingers lessens and a hand he no longer controls caresses his skin; a distinct contrast to the cold burn of something distinctly  _other_  taking command of his body.

This is how Jack knows he’s not insane, that he’s not merely the product of his unique life experiences and mental illness. He allows himself to be swept away, unable to find the motivation to fight; not this early, not over something as simple as clothing choice and how to style his hair.

 _Don’t part my hair._ Jack thinks.  _We’re not going out today._

“Oh, I do believe we are. You haven’t been shopping in days. If you are unable to find the time to maintain your own well being, I will be quite happy to do so for the both of us.”

He’s already thumbing through Jack’s shirts for the royal blue button-up he’d been encouraging earlier.

 _We need eggs. Chicken. Milk. Some bread._ Jack goes down the list in his mind and the Other laughs so sweetly in Jack’s stolen voice.

“I can  _make_  bread, Darlin’. No red meat for you today?”

 _Training,_ Jack offers. _Paper towels, toilet paper,_ Jack continues.  _Spinach, onions, celery. Carrots maybe? I really should leave this to you._

The Other presses a kiss to his knuckles and shoots a smile back to the mirror. If Jack focuses hard enough, he thinks he can see Eric’s face looking back.

 _Sometimes I do miss being ‘them’ instead of ‘us’,_ Jack laments.

“At least we’re together,” Bitty soothes with Jack’s voice. “I’m right here with you, right where you need me.”

______

Jack scans the menu and tries not to smile at Bitty’s excited rambling in the back of his mind.

_“Crawfish étouffée! Honey, next time you have to try it. I mean, I know it can’t possibly hold a candle to what we had in New Orleans, but I want to know if the chef is —“_

“Something funny?”

Jack brings his attention back to the table, where his father is watching him carefully.

“Just…a memory. That’s all.”

“Something is wrong with you,” Bob insists, dropping his credit card on top of a bill he hasn’t bothered to look at. “Is the medication working?”

“It slows me down,” Jack defends, even as Bitty bristles.

_How can he play if he can’t think, Robert?_

“Don’t,” Jack warns under his breath, barely able to catch Bitty’s words from escaping him, and his father watches him with terrifyingly knowing eyes.

“You think I don’t know what this is? What you’re hiding?” Bob accuses softly. “You would have said anything to get out of the hospital. The voices you were hearing, they didn’t go away, did they?”

Jack can feel his control slipping and Bitty snaps, “I’m not a  _voice_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shitty-check-please-aus: "soulmate AU where you find your soulmate if you can go a week without leaving an empty soda can or mug out in your apartment for longer than it should be out"

It makes sense. Jack lives in a frat house. No one cleans up after themselves, and there’s always an empty something he forgets is his. And now, on the cusp of graduation, only when he’s cleaning out his room for the last time, does he find it.

Behind a dresser, wedged against the wall and not quite touching the ground, is an old, empty beer bottle.  

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Jack swears, shoving the drawers out of the way and the bottle drops down to roll across the hardwood. The label says Blue Moon and Jack has nothing to do but shuffle in frustration because he hasn’t consumed Blue Moon since that fucking Kegster his sophomore year where Kent had –

_No._

“Jack, you okay?”

He hears Bittle from the hallway and manages to croak, “yeah,” before taking the bottle and hurling it out the open window; an action followed almost immediately by someone yelling,  _“what the fuck, bro?!”_

Jack pulls himself together and catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looks tired, but he’s healthy; fit. He’ll be in Providence soon. He’ll have a life worth sharing with his soulmate. If they find him. If he finds them. 

He scrubs a hand over his face and groans loudly, just to relish the feeling of the reverberations in his throat. A gentle knock interrupts his thoughts and Bittle pokes his head in, brow furrowed in concern.  

“Did you just throw something out the window?” 

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “There’s been an empty bottle behind my dresser for three years.”

Bittle goes white. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

For as much as Jack is sure Bittle wants to pry further, he just nods tersely and says, “Well, that bottle deserved to be chucked into the street, then. Good riddance.”

“Good riddance,” Jack echoes, not quite minding the way Bittle seems to be lingering.

“You know,” Bitty says after a moment, not quite fidgeting but not steady enough for Jack’s liking. “I had a dirty coffee mug in my desk drawer all semester. I thought it was clean, but nope.”

There’s nothing worse than waiting for a soulmate, thinking you’ve finally pulled yourself together, only to realize you might still be the problem. He knows, he just made the realization five minutes ago. 

“One week left before you graduate,” Bitty says softly, with just a touch of something that sounds too much like regret. “Maybe we’ll both get lucky.”

Jack’s about to respond when Bittle offers a bright smile and everything in Jack’s head goes soft and fuzzy.

“Maybe,” Jack answers when his brain comes back online. “A lot can happen in a week.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ego Boost - NSFW - Jack gets possessive. Also the one where they have sex on a pile of money.

It’s been a difficult week. A difficult month. If the Falcs make the playoffs it’ll be a miracle.

And still, Bitty’s wearing a Zimmermann jersey.  _His_  jersey. Not just one from the team shop, the one Jack wore in his first playoff series against the Islanders. With a little tear on the shoulder from a rough hit and a few spots of faded brown from the resulting punch that succeeded in busting his lip.

Jack, without hesitation, thinks, ‘ _Mine’_.

“Oh, honey,” Bitty strokes the crest of his cheek with his thumb. “Do you need a little ego boost? Want me to tell you how amazing you are?”

“No,” Jack growls, getting an arm around Bittle’s torso to flip him onto the couch. “Tell me the real reason you’re with me.”

Bitty makes a soft  _‘oof’_  of surprise and blinks up at Jack with darkening eyes. “Oh, so it’s one of those nights, is it?”

Jack doesn’t need to hear how amazing he is, he knows how amazing he is, he just needs someone else to revel in that success with him.

Jack drops his head to mouth at Bitty’s neck. “Maybe,” he admits.

“Oh, honey, you want me to be honest?” Bitty laughs huskily and threads his fingers through Jack’s hair, tugging firmly, just how he likes. “Really, really honest? How I spent so much time in college thinking about how if I could just get you to notice me, I’d never need to work a day in my life?”

It shouldn’t turn him on. There’s no acceptable excuse for why he’s wired this way. Well, actually, there are many reasons. Being famous since birth will do that to you. Even in rehab other patients had taken note of his last name on day one and made heart-eyes the whole damn time.

They didn’t care about him, only his accomplishments. His family. His money. And now, blessed with a partner who genuinely loves him for who is, he craves  _this_. Objectification. To be reduced to numbers. Income. Ice time. Stats. Measurements.

“I mean, everyone knows I’m only sleeping with you because you’re famous. For your body. Your name.” Bittle’s hands drift lower, nails scraping against the bare skin on his back. Jack growls in response.

“Or maybe it’s your scoring average? Your ice time? You think I’d fuck anyone else? Some fourth-line d-man riding the pine? No, no, baby, only the Falconers lead scorer is good enough for me —” Bittle digs his fingers into the meat of Jack’s ass and squeezes “— I need a  _power forward_ with a big dick, a bigger paycheck, and a legacy  _bursting_  with potential.”

Jack gets a hand under Bitty and pulls their hips flush, relishing the feeling of Bittle’s stiff cock trapped beneath Jack’s jersey.

“ _Crisse_ ,” Jack breathes, biting at Eric’s jaw, “you have no idea how much I need to fuck you right now.”

Bitty grinds up against him with a laugh. “Oh, baby, you think it’s that easy? You didn’t even score last night. I should be talking to Alexei.”

“ _Bittle_ ,” Jack warns, but Eric is undeterred.

“You think you’ve earned this?  _Prove it_.”

He doesn’t think before he’s on his feet, and Bittle’s over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold.

“Jack!” he squeals, kicking lightly.

“I’m proving it,” Jack says firmly, turning his head to nip at Bitty’s bare ass. “Green light?” he asks, heading to the bedroom.

“Green light, so green,” Bitty sighs, giggling when Jack throws him onto the bed while he fishes lube out of the nightstand. Bitty looks around at the comforter. “Jack, we’ll ruin the —“

“I’ll buy a new one. ”

“Wait, wait!” Bitty rolls over and makes a grabby motion. “Can we do the thing?”

Jack stops. “What thing?”

“The —“ Bitty jerks his head toward the closet, and the safe, “— the ‘ _thing’_.”

The request clicks and what blood is left in Jack’s brain rushes south. The emergency cash.  Three stacks of fresh $100 dollar bills. Thirty thousand dollars.

“I wasn’t kidding, Mr. Zimmermann. Big dick, bigger paycheck. Put on you cup ring.”

____

_One Hour Later…_

____

“I can’t believe you talked me into having sex on a pile of money,” Bitty groans. “So unsanitary.”

“Whoa, hey,” Jack pushes up on his elbows and awkwardly hip-checks his boyfriend. “This was your idea. Also, those were fresh bills. Emphasis on ‘were’.”

“I know, just, ugh, we got lube on the money.”

“More than lube, Peach Bud.” Jack grabs a handful of bills and drops them on Bitty’s stomach. “You want to go shopping?”

“Don’t tease.”

Jack rolls on top of Bitty, batting a few tacky 100s still sticking to his skin that refuse to shake loose. “I want you to spend my money, Bits. I want everyone to know I’m the one taking care of you.”

“That’s awfully possessive, hon, and kinda stereotypical,” Eric mumbles, shoving him off to count out several bills before dropping a neat stack on Jack’s thigh. “Hey, here’s rent.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I really like taking care of you.”

“You like spending money on me.”

“And taking care of you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“I’m not a newly-minted WAG, Jack. I don’t need you to shower me with gifts every five minutes to keep me from leaving. Let’s start a scholarship fund. Instead of blowing your salary on watches and cars and —”

“Clothes?” Jack adds.

“No, I still want to look good, don’t paint your golden goose grey, Zimmermann. But seriously? You know how many kids you could get into mites with thirty grand?” Eric fists a handful of bills and winces. “Okay, not this thirty grand.”

“Not as many as you’d think, but your point is valid.”

Eric starts laughing to himself. “What about ‘ _The_   _Jack Zimmermann Scholarship for kids who can’t play hockey good’_.”

 _“‘And want to learn how to do other stuff good, too’.”_  Jack finishes with a grin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMGCPumpkins entry based on AwfulRuby's Werewolf!Jack art. Implied, ah, murder?

The room is sealed. With Bitty inside.

“No — no, no, no,” Jack pulls at the door with increasing desperation, slamming his fists against the hinges, trying to shake the bolts loose. When the action proves fruitless — the room was built to prevent exactly this scenario — he turns and finds Bitty fisting his cloak in his hands, pale against the concrete wall behind him.

“Jack,” he tries. “Sweet-pea, it’ll be okay —“

“Bits, I won’t remember you!” He can already feel the pull in his bones, the shift of his organs, and he slides to his knees, already crippled by the pain.  _“This isn’t a movie —“_

Bitty is there in an instant, running his fingers through Jack’s hair, trying to soothe him, and all he can think is that this will be the last thing he remembers. Bitty trying to help, just before Jack turns into some kind of terrible beast and eviscerates him.

“I’m sorry,” Jack pleads between clenched teeth, “I’m going to hurt you, I’m sorry, Bitty, please, I’m sorry —“

Bitty flinches at the audible popping of Jack’s joints.

“This isn’t your fault,” he rests a hand on Jack’s cheek, rough with growing stubble. “Whatever happens, happens.”

“But you’re going to  _die_ ,” Jack’s beginning to lose consciousness, but he manages to hold on, trying to memorize Bitty’s face.

“You don’t know that,” Bitty whispers, clutching him tightly. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”

Jack blacks out.

________

The change comes and goes, leaving Bitty alone with a massive, slavering beast that smiles down at him with very, very sharp teeth. 

The monster takes one step, then another, and Bitty reaches out slowly…to scratch his nails under Jack’s furry chin, just where he likes it.

“You always get so tense, thinking you’re going to hurt me. You only ever scare yourself, you know.” Bitty chides when Jack ducks down to nose at his neck apologetically before nipping at the collar of Bitty’s cloak.

“Hey, stop that. You’ve got your costume, don’t ruin mine.”

Jack huffs and whimpers like he isn’t several hundred pounds of muscle, fur, and teeth; a creature that, if loosed upon the Samwell campus, has, and will again, take a life. If Bitty were a stronger man, he wouldn’t give in, but this is Jack, his handsome, perfect, murderously monstrous boyfriend. And Bitty is, if nothing else, a caretaker. 

Some might even say he’s an enabler.

“Fine,” Bitty sighs while Jack pants, vibrating with what Bitty knows is anticipation. 

A large, hairy arm pulls Bitty in tight to Jack’s chest, and Bitty relents — slipping around in his partner’s grasp to open the locks to the safe room door. When the last lock is almost opened, Bitty looks over his shoulder at Jack, meeting his bloodshot blue eyes, noting how his higher function is already slipping away. 

Bitty clicks the combination in and slides the bolt, pushing the steel door open to relish the cool October air. Jack’s grip tightens, his claws sink ever so slightly into the flesh of Bitty’s belly. 

It’s time.

“C’mon you big furball, let’s find you someone to eat then.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reincarnation AU - Angst, homophobia, based on Omgpieplease's OMGCP Heartbreakfest entry, 'The Second Time Around': https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730147

It’s a tiny town in the north of France Jack can’t remember the name of and they’re sharing the limited space with an American artillery unit. It happens quickly, like these things do: a brush of hands at the bar, a look that lasts a hair too long.

He’s fair and sleight, a streak of oil still lingering across one cheek, and Jack recognizes the look on his face. The weariness that only comes from watching those around you fall to death like dominos.

It’s quick and clean. There’s no time for anything less than measured kisses and quick wrists. They don’t exchange names, but Jack knows he’s identifiable by his uniform. His rank.

When the American sighs against him, whispering fervent nothings, the syllables twang with an accent Jack can only describe as ‘Southern’; bringing to mind warm sunshine and sticky sweet fruit.

 _‘You don’t belong here,’_  Jack thinks, coming down quickly from a much-needed climax.  _‘None of us belong here.’_

Then he does what he always does in moments like these. He steals a kiss, savors it like it may be his last, and departs as quickly as he’d come.

It’s only later he finds the token tucked away in his pocket, midway through inspection when he digs in his coat for a pair of gloves. 

A peach pit.

“Didn’t take you for a spiritualist, Captain,” Evans ribs in his own, slightly defeated way.

Jack rolls the curiously smooth stone in his palm.

“Pardon?” 

“Peach stones? Supposed to ward off demons or something.”

“No, no,” Lewis pipes up from another bunk. “Peach pits are for long life.”

He thinks about soft hands and tired eyes, and he clutches the pit tightly so the edges bite into the skin of his palm.

“Nice sentiment,” Jack says softly. “Let’s see if it works.”

He carries the seed with him for another eight months. Until Germany surrenders and he gets his discharge papers.

* * *

_Several Years Later_

* * *

Jack hears about the posting through a friend of a friend. An associate professor position in Georgia that needs to be filled immediately. The ink is barely dry on his degree, and the whole thing seems too good to be true.

[Like most things, it is.] 

The small college town welcomes a war hero with open arms – even if half the people think he’s French, not French-Canadian, and question him as such – but he’s happy. 

He has his students, his writing, more than enough to distract him from less-than-pleasant memories of faraway countries. It’s almost worth how the town biddies tut and fuss over his empty house, lamenting such a handsome bachelor living alone with no wife, no family. 

“No time, I’m afraid,” he sighs, after every forced conversation. “Too many young minds needing instruction to waste my energy on making an honest man of myself.”

The bakery actually delivers, and Jack notes the small van with the bright lettering on the side, as common as the milk truck. The driver is familiar, but Jack can’t place his face. The man offers a friendly wave, pedestrian, and Jack raises the hand to return the gesture.

He doesn’t think about the peach pit he keeps in the box with his father’s watch.

The temptation is too much when Richard Keller from next door invites Jack to lunch and serves him a sandwich on the most heavenly bread he’s tasted since moving away from home. His resolve cracks and the next morning he opens his front door to find an unfamiliar smile on a familiar face.

“Good morning!” The delivery man says cheerily, before hesitating at the look of surprise that must be plain as day on Jack’s face. 

“Did you serve?” Jack says quickly, unable to stop himself.

The man hesitates. “Um. Yes. I did. Briefly.” 

Jack scrambles to compose himself, fails, and asks, “Were you, by chance, stationed in France?”

“Oh!” The man’s eyes, as brown and bright as Jack remembers, go wide. “I’m sorry, did we serve together?”

“If I’m not mistaken, you left a peach pit in the pocket of my overcoat.”

Jack has never seen someone’s face go so red so quickly. 

“Oh, my lord,” the man breathes, his free hand rising to cover his mouth. “It  _is_ you _._ ”

Jack steps back, leaving space in his doorway. “You should come inside.”

“I can’t, I have deliveries, I,” he hesitates, pressing the loaf of sourdough into Jack’s hands. “Though I want to. Very much.”

“Jack. My name is Jack.”

The man smiles shyly, face still flushed. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Jack. I’m Eric.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Hazing' - Jack’s history with hazing is not a pleasant one and he’s not about to continue the tradition at Samwell. The decision has nothing to do with Eric Bittle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: pre-Jack/Bitty; Past Kent/Jack
> 
> Warnings: flashbacks to Juniors, implied dub-con situation, locker room talk, vague-ish descriptions of aggressive hazing rituals. Longer description in the A/N at the end.
> 
> A/N: So I basically filled my own meta-prompt about Jack/Bitty being afraid of college hazing, and combined it with the @zimmbonibitty suggestion that Jack made Bitty’s freshman Hazeapalooza less intimidating to protect him. Went a little nuts with it. Fair warning, there’s some heavy stuff in here, mostly regarding Jack and Kent being hazed in Juniors, including an implied dub-con situation, locker room talk, and descriptions of hazing rituals that I really wish were made up. This is partially inspired by this incident with Manitoba’s Junior’s team, other examples were taken from personal accounts of athletic and frat hazing online, stories from friends of mine, and personal experience.

**Now:**

It’s the third time they’ve had this discussion and Jack is tired of having to explain himself. Again, he ticks off the points on his fingertips. 

“Underwear stays on. No naked obstacle course. No dare-or-dare.”

Shitty huffs and kicks his legs off the bed in a mock tantrum. “You’re making this really fuckin’ hard, Jackie. At this rate, even the swim team is going to have a more hardcore initiation than us. They do brunch, Zimmermann. BRUNCH. We have a reputation to uphold: Epikegster and Hazeapalooza are the highlights of the fucking year. SMH needs two legs to stand on, Jack.  _Deux jambes_ , bro.”

“I don’t care about the lacrosse team, or the swim team, or any team except this one, and the men’s hockey team shouldn’t be known for hazing.”

“It’s not hazing, it’s  _Hazeapalooza,_ it’s  _fun._ ” Shitty furrows his brow. “Wait, wait, wait – what about the kidnapping? It’s  _tradition_.”

Jack shakes his head. “Not this year. Not with Bittle. Not with his history.” 

Shitty huffs like a bull, but acquiesces. “Yeah, suppose blindfolding Bitty and tossing him into a Uhaul with a bunch of drunk naked bros  _might_  be a bit much.”

“We don’t want to traumatize him. Any of them.”

“That’s the last fucking thing we need.” Shitty gripes, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, I’ve got some ideas, they might be hella-fucking-lame without Lards’ creative input, but something’s better than nothing.”

_________

_**Then:** _

Jack remembers spending the night before his 16th birthday bare-assed at center ice with the rest of the Oceanic rookies. It’s not a pleasant memory by any stretch of the imagination.

Before he left Montreal, his father told him to always expect some kind of hazing ritual with a new team - even winked as he warned him not to drink too much and have fun. Bond with the boys.

Jack remembers wondering what the hell kind of initiations his father went through that he could joke about it after; or if it was just another example of something he couldn’t handle as well as Bad Bob.

Someone pours a bottle of water on him and his feet stick against the ice. They make him drink until he can barely stand. Grab him. Mock him. Scream at him so loud his ears ring.

Logically, Jack knows it’ll end soon, but he’s drunk, he’s tired, and all the wrong receptors are firing in his brain. He needs his medication. He wants to cry. Maybe he does, because someone hurls a slur and Girard brings up that decades-old tabloid rumor about Bad Bob cruising gay bars.

When they ask if sucking dick runs in the family, Jack chokes back the urge to vomit. He saw what they made Anders do after he threw-up, Jack’s not about to risk the same torment. 

Then, they turn on Parse, his new billet-mate and almost friend.

Kent, the American who laughs at Jack’s bad jokes and pretends he doesn’t cry at night because he’s homesick. Kent, who is kind, and short, and makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches. Kent, who has freckles on his chest and a little mole on his hip that Jack tries so hard not to peek at when they change after practice. Kent, who might actually like Jack for Jack and who doesn’t deserve any of this.

Jack thinks it’s almost over, pushing two am with practice less than six hours away, but he’s wrong; and like most things in Jack’s life, it gets worse before it gets better.

____

They don’t talk about it after, even if the guys dance around the subject with suggestive chirps and pointed looks. They all get to play nice now, because the rookies have earned their stripes, and Jack’s proved he’s worthy of being a part of this team.

If his hands shake a little harder before practice, if he has trouble sleeping and never shows his back to his teammates in the locker room, that’s his business and no one else’s. 

It’s over. He survived.

But Kent…Kent is different now. Quiet. Angry. He sticks to Jack like a shadow. Or maybe Jack is the shadow, he can’t tell anymore and he doesn’t care. They train together, play together, drink together, neither drifting too far out of sight. Even though that night is behind them, even though they’re ‘brothers’, Jack doesn’t trust his teammates, he can’t, but he trusts Kenny, and Kenny trusts him.

Then one night Kent misses curfew, and when he does come home he’s got a black eye and a bloody nose. Julianna fusses over him, threatening to call Coach, but he says it wasn’t a fight; claims he was jumped on the way home. It’s a lie, but Julianna doesn’t want a scene any more than they do, so she drops it.

Later, when Jack asks what really happened, Kent grins toothily, more of a grimace than smile, and pulls a wrinkled polaroid from his pocket. It’s a picture from Initiation, the one where their faces are smushed together in a parody of a kiss. You can’t see the hands forcing them together, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Kent gives him the photo. 

“You don’t have to pretend to like me anymore, I took care of it. They can’t blackmail you now.”

Instead of validating the statement, Jack moves to the bathroom, collecting the candle lighter and upending the small metal wastebasket. They sit on the porch and burn the photo, together. 

“I’m not pretending to like you,” Jack stumbles, words heavy on his tongue. “I like you. A lot. You’re my best friend.”

Over the tiny, acrid fire, Kent leans in and presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek; off-center and sloppy with his swollen face, but a kiss just the same.

That night Kent scrambles down from the top bunk and slides into bed beside him. Jack doesn’t say a word, just takes Kent’s hand beneath the sheets, links their fingers, and squeezes tight.

If Kent can be brave, Jack can too. 

_____

**Now:**

Jack keeps his sunglasses on, a beer in his hand, and every time one of the frogs looks up at him, he offers a slight smile. Reassuring them that they’re safe. There isn’t a terrible surprise coming. This is it. This is all.

The frogs drink. They howl like wolves. They sing off-key and curse and pledge their loyalty to the Gods of Hockey. It’s stupid. Irreverent. Benign.

Fun.

Bittle shakes like a leaf, but it isn’t because he’s scared, he’s just cold; laughing like the rest of them at the spectacle they’re making together.

Just a bunch of ‘schwasted hockey bros chanting ‘ _G. O. A. T.’_ at a cardboard standee of Wayne Gretzky surrounded by flaming pucks.

This is brotherhood.

Later, as Ransom and Holster oversee the frogs attempting to joust with hockey sticks, Shitty slides into Jack from the side, elbowing him playfully.

“And you were worried Bitty couldn’t handle a bit of fun. Bro can already drink Wicks under the table, his blood’s half alcohol, man; half alcohol, half fucking pie-filling. You know little dude would have  _owned_  the naked obstacle course.”

Jack’s reply is lost as Bittle lets loose a battle-cry and skates into Davis, knocking them both to the ice in a sprawl of limbs and laughter. Instead, Jack offers up a fist, which is bumped eagerly.

“Jaques Laurent Zimmermann, softest fucking bro at Samwell. Don’t worry, won’t tell anyone your terrible secret.”

“Doesn’t hurt anything to retire the old traditions,” Jack says, watching the other frogs congratulate Bittle. “Not if we’re able to start better ones.”

Shitty grins and pulls Jack into a loose headlock. “Whatever, man. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about your freshman no-show. I’m coming for you next year.”

Instead of dread, Jack feels…nothing. Indifferent, like the threat has passed. He shakes out of Shitty’s hold and wrestles himself away, surprised at the laugh that escapes him.

“Alright, Shits. I’ll be ready.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack takes a tumble on the ice and falls face-first onto a skate blade. The cut isn’t life-threatening, but it’s deep, long, and doesn’t heal as nicely as everyone might like, so the scarring is really noticeable. Honestly, it’s a miracle Jack didn’t lose an eye.
> 
> Jack’s not a vain person but he does start to worry if Bitty is secretly bothered by his ‘new look’; of course, Bitty isn’t turned off at all by Jack’s battle scars, but he can’t go around telling people that, now can he?
> 
> (Inspired by the ESPN scar article floating around)

 

____

“Are they implying I should have broken up with you because you got hurt?” 

Jack closes his eyes and leans into Bitty’s touch, letting his boyfriend ramble while he massages moisturizer around the still-tender edges of his scar. 

“Apparently, I’m disfigured now. Stare too long and you’ll turn to stone.” Jack mutters, suppressing a groan as Bitty scratches his scalp with his free hand. He’s perched on the bathroom counter, thighs spread wide so Bits can stand between them and easily reach Jack’s face. 

“Alright, Medusa, if that’s the price to pay for leering at my terribly handsome boyfriend, then I’m sure I’ll make a lovely statue. Tilt your head back, I need to get your chin.” Jack obliges, this time he does groan when Bitty draws his fingers across his cheeks. 

Times like this, Jack could care less about the six-inch long gash running diagonally across his face. If he’d known catching his fall on Tater’s skate would lead to such blissfully intimate moments, he probably would have subconsciously found a way to get hurt sooner. Which is not a thought he’s ever going to share aloud.

“How often do we need to do this again?” Jack whispers, trying not to interrupt the way Bitty’s thumbs are making gentle circles over the bow of his lips.

“At least twice a day for the next six months, but you’re probably going to need to use moisturizer and sunscreen daily for, well, forever.” 

Jack hums, thinking about experiencing  _this_  – Bitty’s hands on his face, touching him, soothing his pain – on a daily basis for the rest of his life.

“This doesn’t bother you?” He asks, curious. “The scarring? Helping?”

Bitty laughs, a low, sweet rumble that vibrates in Jack’s ribcage. He opens his eyes to see Bitty only a few inches from his face, smiling wryly.

“Doesn’t bother me in the slightest. You could have lost an eye and I’d still be right here. In fact, for a while there I thought you had. That mess you made? Lord, I thought they left half of you on the ice, there was so much blood.”

Jack remembers the chaos after the hit, ripping off his helmet to press his glove against what he’d thought was a much less serious cut. He’s seen the tape now, multiple times; he doesn’t need to imagine how horrifying it looked to everyone in the stands. He loses the train of thought when Bitty starts massaging his brow again. 

Jack sighs and in an instant of absolute contentment, asks, “So, if I marry you, you’ll do this forever, right?”

To his credit, Bitty doesn’t miss a beat, fingers still pressing gentle figure-eights against Jack’s skin. 

“That really your proposal? Not even going to get down on one knee…do you even have a ring?”

“And what if it is?” Jack counters, leaning further into his boyfriend’s space. Bitty tries to stifle his laughter and fails. “Bits, I’m hurt – ” Jack gestures to his face, “– if you don’t say yes TMZ is going to say you’re shallow.”

Bitty snorts in disbelief, slapping his palm lightly against Jack’s cheek. “TMZ already thinks I’m shallow. You’ll have to try harder than that.”

“I’ll buy you a car if you say yes.”

“You owe me a car for sneaking MooMaw’s chicken tenders into the hospital. Two if we count that time I kept Marty’s kids from interrupting your nap.”

Jack knows he’ll look back on this conversation in very short order and be utterly horrified; but that’s the future, he might be dead by then.

“So I’ll buy you a house.”

“Stop bribing me,” Bitty warns, but there’s no heat behind the words, just raw affection that only emboldens Jack further.

“Two houses. One here and one in Georgia. We can honeymoon in France, or Hawai’i, or both –”

“I’m not marrying you for your money.”

“Well clearly you aren’t marrying me for my looks, what do I have left to offer? My personality?”

Under normal circumstances, Jack would be a nervous wreck, but somehow, in this moment, he doesn’t care at all. This is exactly what he never knew he needed. Compassion, indifference to bodily harm, a partner chirping his half-assed proposal, it’s utterly perfect. 

Then Bitty reaches down and twists his bare nipple  _hard._

“That’s for proposing like a dumbass…but I guess I’m just as foolish for saying yes.”

It’s an opening and Jack takes it, reaching forward to pinch Bitty through the fabric of his tank top. They wrestle for a moment, but Jack gains the upper hand and pulls his boyfriend – no,  _fiancé_ – into a kiss before a sharp twinge reminds him of his injury.

“I love you, Bits,” Jack whispers against the seam of Bitty’s lips, “so very much.”

“Love you too, Sweetpea,” Bitty says, moving to press his lips to the bright red indent over the bridge of Jack’s nose. “Every last piece of you – even the chunks of good-sense you clearly left frozen to the ice at the Dunkin Donuts Center.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SoftMasculine, possibly genderfluid!Jack based on Omgpieplease's art: https://omgpieplease.tumblr.com/post/162460238402/ahhhhh-sooooooo-waaaay-back-when-irlkent-tagged

You can’t always tell because he keeps it tied up, looped in a bun, hidden beneath his helmet, but Jack’s hair is  _long_. On the rare occasion his mane slips out during a game, commentators like to describe it as the most majestic flow the game has seen in years.

But then it gets longer, slipping from the nape of his neck down to his shoulders. Playoffs end in defeat or victory, but Jack doesn’t get the chop. It isn’t good luck or bad luck, it just is. 

And it gets longer still. Long enough Bitty can practice his bread braids while they watch SportsCenter. Long enough they can play around with all the fun hair products Jack gets sent by advertisers for simply existing. 

Then one weekend they go for a hike with some of the old Samwell crew, and they don’t make it two miles before Lardo and Farmer have Jack planted on a boulder, weaving his long hair into a messy Bavarian braid. 

By the time they’re done tucking ivy and wildflowers in between the weave, Jack is cautious to meet Bitty’s eyes, instead looking to Shitty for approval, which he offers without hesitation.

“Jackie, babe, you’re a god-damn Disney princess you know that? Making me miss my flow!”

Bitty notices a gap in the braid just above Jack’s temple and snags an oxeye daisy from behind a log to loop in while Jack holds terribly still, ready for rejection. For criticism. It breaks Bitty’s heart just a little bit. 

“You look so pretty, honey,” Bitty whispers just above Jack’s ear, without an ounce of sarcasm. “We should cover you in flowers more often.” 

When he pulls back Jackis _glowing._

For the rest of the hike, Bitty makes sure to collect the most beautiful flowers for Jack’s hair. By the end of the day, Jack might as well be wearing a crown. 

Jack is gorgeous, huge, colorful and filthy, and smiling so wide in their photos that he could be a different person; but there’s something else, something new, and Bitty is reminded suddenly of an old Marilyn Monroe interview. 

_‘Do you want to see me become her?’_

It takes a while for Bitty to really understand because he’s so used to thinking about things in black and white, but when he gets it,  _he gets it_. There’s nothing to debate because for all Jack Zimmermann is Bitty’s NHL star hyper-masculine boyfriend, sometimes he’d rather not be. Sometimes Jack might wake up and maybe, technically, sorta, kinda be Bitty’s girlfriend, instead. Or significant other. Partner. Bro. Companion. Depends on the day.

A Google search gives him the term ‘gender-fluid’, and the first time Bitty brings it up, Jack just shrugs and says, “Neat.”

He starts to see it at night when Jack showers off the day and the thick locks fall down past his shoulders. When Jack Zimmermann stops being anything other than  _Jack_ , slipping the bounds of ‘proper’ identification.

It’s that easy. Nothing changes, because they’re still ‘Jack and Bitty’. Jack’s terrible fashion sense doesn’t disappear overnight. Jack’s toes are still freezing under the covers, Jack still cheats at Monopoly, Jack is the same terribly wonderful human being Bitty fell in love with. 

But now, sometimes, Bitty will wake up and roll over to find the love of his life buried beneath a mound of blankets, peering at him sleepily.

And Jack will whisper, “I’m feeling soft today.”

And Bitty will yawn and say, “Sounds great Sweetpea. You want to start the coffee or should I?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alicia almost leaves Bob after Jack's overdose

The night before her son turns 13, Alicia Zimmermann pulls her husband aside and says, “Promise me you’ll let him choose for himself. If he wants to play hockey, if he wants to dance, if he wants to be a waiter, we’ll be okay with it.

Bob promises her, with all the devotion she’s come to expect, but not minutes later reminds her the NHL waits for no man, and Jack will need to start preparing for the future as soon as possible.

It was a sign of things to come, and she didn’t heed the warnings.

* * *

Jack is 14 when they diagnose him with an anxiety disorder Alicia’s never heard of. The specialist recommends reducing the level of stress in his life, maybe cutting back on unnecessary extracurriculars. He knows the family. He knows Bob. He’s being gentle.

They don’t change anything because hockey is life. Jack’s happy on the ice, unhappy off, so they take the medication instead. Just another step to Jack’s already offensively complicated routine.

“See?” Bob smiles when Jack is chosen to play for Rimouski Oceanic. “He’s going to be fine. Not like you and I didn’t need a little extra help in the beginning.”

He’s talking about Alicia’s drinking nearly twenty years prior. His own cocaine problem in the early 80s. But Jack’s not twenty and whole-hog into a career, he’s a teenager. 

She wants to protest on principle, but this isn’t her life. Bob knows this world better than she ever will, and if Jack still wants to play professionally (and he does), she needs to defer to her husband.

If this is what Jack wants, they’ll make it work.

* * *

Jack’s energetic, he’s happy, he has a friend he won’t be seen without, and Alicia watches how close Kent’s fingers are to Jack’s when they walk together. It’s not what she expected, but she’s happy he has someone. 

She’s not the only one that notices how close the boys are, and Bob turns to her in bed one night, brow furrowed, and says, “Kent Parson.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Are he and Jack…?”

She doesn’t say anything, just lifts a brow and gives him a considering look. 

Bob’s lips go white with how hard he’s pressing them together. “That’s not going to be easy, for either of them.”

“If it makes him happy,” she argues, and Bob hums in agreement. That should have been the end of it. But something happens, and she’s not there to stop it. 

* * *

The night before Jack overdoses and his career goes up in flames, the Zimmermann household is in ruins for an entirely different reason.

“Jesus Christ, Robert, I’m supposed to be a goddamn activist, if this gets out —”

“I don’t have a problem with gay people —”  
  
 _“Don’t lie to me_!” Alicia slams her hand on the table, nearly shaking with anger. “You told him to hide.”  
  
“I told him to be  _discreet_. Do you think I’m doing this for me? I’m getting calls day and night from teams wanting to know if the rumors are true. I was trying to be proactive! He can’t be–”  
  
“What? Gay? That’s what you’re worried about? Maybe we can engrave that on the back of my GLAAD award: ‘For excellence in telling your child to hide their sexuality until they retire’. So everyone can know how fucking supportive we are. Does he think I feel the same way you do?”  
  
“I don’t know, I don’t remember,”  
  
“ _My God_ , I can’t even look at you right now. You’re going to fix this. I don’t know how, but you’re going to make this right.”

* * *

Of course, then they find Jack unresponsive on the floor with a half empty bottle of medication and they don’t immediately know it was an accident. 

For about twelve hours, while Jack’s condition is still unstable, Alicia very seriously considers killing her husband. 

They’re red-eyed and exhausted in the waiting room when the doctor on call says they need to pray for a miracle. She stares at a stain on the carpet for a long moment, hands clasped, but she’s not praying. Bob makes some kind of sound, a hitching breath that isn’t quite crying, and she turns her head to watch him fidget. 

“Robert, look at me,” she says softly, deceptively kind, and when she has his attention, and with more hatred than she ever thought she could possibly feel, she says, “You did this. And I swear to you, if my son dies tonight, I’ll leave.”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, doesn’t even wait to see the expression on his face. She collects her purse and stands, stretching her legs and heads to the vending machines.

She buys a Dr. Pepper and a bag of Tropical Skittles.

 

* * *

Jack lives. 

Alicia stays.

But she moves her GLAAD award to the trophy room. Settles it right beside Bob’s Hall of Fame plaque. 

Because she will  _never_  let him forget.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> straydog733 asked:
> 
> If you're still looking for prompts: physically disabled Jack playing sled hockey. Bonus points for trying to teach Bob. Thanks!

“Stop making fun of your father and get over here,” Alicia yells, slapping her sticks against the ice. “When he finally figures it out you’re doomed, might as well score now!”

But Jack doesn’t move because he’s laughing so hard he’s actually crying. “How are you a living legend? You can’t even balance on a sled!” 

Bob pushes himself upright and nearly falls over on his other hip. Under normal circumstances, he’d be embarrassed, so clearly struggling before an entire wedding party's worth of current and former NHLers, but this is a unique circumstance. He’ll happily play the part of the fool, today, or forever, really, if it means he can see Jack smile like this on a regular basis.

“We – ” Jack gasps for breath, shaking so hard he might topple himself, “– we can’t play if Papa can’t skate.”

Alicia streaks past, still radiant in her makeup from the morning’s ceremony. “Bobby, even I’m better at this than you. How is that possible?”

“You are ruthless,” Bob breathes, watching his wife circle him, “and you’re on my team! Is anyone else seeing this? Eric! Have some compassion and come help your father-in-law!”

Bitty, who up to this point has been taking easy laps with his parents, breaks away only to be quickly intercepted by Jack.

“Oh, no, it’s only been six hours, you can’t start playing the father-in-law card.”

Shitty quickly shoots between them, “Make it quick, gentleman, Bitty’s mom is brutal. She’s laid out Tater twice.”

“What’s the point of you getting married if I can’t abuse the relationship for personal gain? You helped Richard, you traitor, so your husband can help me.” Bob argues, propping himself up with his hands instead of the sticks.

 _“I didn’t think you’d need the help,”_  Jack grins, switching to French and sliding up beside his father, _“you’re supposed to be the best.”_

 _“Ah, well, one too many concussions and my balance isn’t quite what it used to be.”_ Bob looks up from the ice in time to catch Jack’s smile falter. 

_“Are you feeling alright? Is your vertigo back?”_

Christ. He didn’t want to make this about him; any latent injury of Bob’s was dwarfed a long time ago by Jack’s accident, not that this is anything close to a competition. He shakes his head and holds out his arm so Jack can hold him stable. 

_“I’m more than alright, just old and jaded, watching all you handsome young bucks skate circles around me.”_

Jack laughs and Bob watches his gaze flit back to Eric, who’s carefully coiffed hair is finally falling out of place as he tries to keep his mother from ramming her sled into Alexei Mashkov. 

 _“Lean forward a bit, center your weight around your hips,”_ Jack explains, pressing a hand against Bob’s lower-back.  _“Not too far, use your sticks to move forward, it’s easier to balance when you’re in motion.”_

Bob is struck suddenly by a sense of deja-vu; remembering how easy it had been to teach Jack to skate nearly thirty years earlier. Or how easy it had seemed to a Stanley Cup champion. Jack must have felt exactly how Bob does now, unsteady and unsure. 

 _“There you go,”_  Jack says brightly once Bob has centered himself. “ _See? Not so hard after all. Now you just have to score.”_

Jack pulls a puck from between his thighs and tosses it onto the ice. Bob moves to pass it and promptly finds himself lying back on his side.

 _“This is just like the time I tried snowboarding,”_  Bob groans.  _“Had to scoot down the mountain on my ass.”_

“Can we make new teams?” Alicia asks. “This doesn’t feel fair.”

Jack snorts a laugh and pulls Bob upright again.  _“C’mon, Papa, you’ll have this down in no time. Can’t let Maman get bragging rights, she’ll never let you live it down.”_


End file.
